


The Ghost

by Miracule



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Aramis cements his friendship with Athos and begins to take an interest, Essentially a series of snapshots from Savoy to the appearance of D'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and Athos is good at hiding his feelings. most of the time., but Athos is confusing, this is turning into more of an origin story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis never expected to come out of Savoy alive.  And he certainly didn't expect Athos to be so warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I haven't read the Three Musketeers. I don't have a f*ckn clue about how they really meet, or become close friends. I didn't even think it was super clear from the show. So, this is what I came up with. Forgive me if I got it completely wrong. ; )

Aramis felt a dull pain inside of him, followed by a wave of nausea. Treville was shaking him, gently at first, and then harder. But Aramis could say nothing. He had been awake for so long—keeping watch, waiting, musket at the ready—that all of his energy was now being spent on keeping himself upright. His stomach ached, and he said so, his voice hardly audible over Treville’s pointed questions. 

“Are you hurt? Is there anyone else? Aramis, answer me—please, boy...” 

“Please...I’m going to be sick,” he tried again.

The captain leaned back, gazing steadily into his musketeer’s face. Aramis wondered what he looked like, underneath all of the blood and the dirt. “It’s your head, no doubt,” Treville said, quietly. “Just take it easy, my boy, we’ll get you out of here soon enough.” Aramis could hear his captain’s voice crack on the last few words. 

But there was a fog obscuring Aramis’ vision—obscuring thought. His stomach turned. He felt blindly for his captain’s arm, and within a moment, he retched and doubled over. Treville held him, and attempted—in vain—to keep him from soiling his clothes. 

By the time Aramis was finished being sick, there were tears flowing freely down his face, and he felt that he was on the cusp of fainting. He was vaguely aware of Treville’s hands on his chest, tearing open his tunic. 

“It’s all right, boy,” he was saying, his fingers cold against Aramis’ bare skin. “Breathe through it...that’s it. It’s bruising on your ribs, that’s all. The pain’ll die down once you’ve stopped...Athos, help me.” 

Treville stood, leaving him to the cold. 

Aramis didn’t know Athos very well. But when a new pair of hands—presumably, belonging to Athos—took him gently by the arms, Aramis reached for him with the panicked need of a small child. He was shaking so violently that he became frightened of causing himself further pain. He tried to beg Athos for some warmth, hardly recognizing his own voice. 

Athos quickly helped him close his tunic, and began to remove his own cloak. 

“I think I’m dy-dying.” 

The man smiled briefly, and fitted his cloak around Aramis’ shoulders. “You’re not dying, friend.” He laid a hand on a trembling knee and squeezed. “You’re going to be fine.” Athos’ voice was deep and steady and Aramis found himself nodding. 

When it was finally time to move, it was Athos who accepted the burden of lifting and carrying Aramis into a waiting wagon. It was a painful process, and Aramis found himself intermittently gasping and wheezing against Athos’ neck, too engrossed in his own pain and sickness and horror to feel any shame. 

In the wagon, Athos laid a hand on his leg and told him once more that he was going to be all right. He then stepped aside with Treville, and the two men stood out in the snow, whispering to each other. Athos turned back and looked at Aramis with something akin to pity. 

Treville came back into the wagon. “It’s nothing,” he told Aramis. “We don’t have enough space for eighteen men in these wagons, is all. But it doesn’t matter. We will return with more.”

It was clear to Aramis that they had come expecting twenty dead musketeers. Instead, one of them—at least one—was alive, and he was taking an entire wagon to himself. But Aramis said nothing. The thought of sharing space with one of his fallen comrades—the cold, white, stiff, bloodied body of a friend—made bile rise at the back of his throat. He silently cursed Marsac for leaving him here, alone. 

“We can do no more here,” Treville said. “We must take these men back to Paris. You can tell your story when you are rested.” 

He continued, “I will ride ahead, but I will not leave you to go alone. Will you take Athos with you?”

Aramis nodded absently. 

[_|_]

Athos was silent most of the time, until Aramis admitted that the jarring motions of the wagon were causing him a good deal of pain. 

Athos placed a hand on his shoulder and let it rest there. “I only wish I could do something for it.” 

Aramis shook his head, and there was a long silence. 

Finally, “I can tell you of my first proper encounter with a girl—as a young boy. If you will hear it.” 

Aramis managed to smile. Before they’d left to train in Savoy, he’d been telling a group of musketeers about his first kiss—a fair girl, down by the banks of a river. They had been pretending to slay dragons. He didn’t think Athos had been listening at all. 

“You know...” Aramis began, closing his eyes. “That s-story isn’t entirely...true.” 

He heard Athos chuckle softly. “No?”

“The f-first time I kissed a girl, it—it wasn’t a girl at all. It was a l-lad with v-very feminine f-features.” He almost laughed, but a sharp pain in his ribs sobered him.

“What ever did you do?” 

Aramis briefly debated whether or not to tell him the truth. Not even his own mother knew the ending to that story. But now, he was dying. 

“Kissed him again,” he admitted, quietly. “Wh-why not?” Athos laughed shortly, gave his shoulder a squeeze. 

“I have some wine,” said Athos gently, pulling a small bottle from inside of his clothing. He opened it and took a long drink, downing nearly half of the contents. Aramis watched him, thoroughly stunned. “Take a drink. I can’t let you have much, considering your head, but a drop or two won’t hurt.” 

Athos pressed the bottle to Aramis’ lips, which were cracked from the cold. He took a small sip, but the wine was strong and it seemed to suck the moisture from his throat as it went down. 

“Forgive me,” muttered Athos, “It is sour, isn’t it.”

“Do you always ca-carry wine about your person?”

“Most days.” 

A good deal of time passed until Athos spoke to him again. “We’ll find those responsible, Aramis. We’ll bring them to justice, I promise you.” 

[_|_]

Porthos cupped Aramis’ face in his large hands and laughed breathlessly. 

“I thought I’d lost you for good, my friend.” 

Aramis tried to respond, but he couldn’t even find the energy to open his eyes.

“Leave him for now, Porthos.” Aramis heard Athos’ voice from across the courtyard. “He’s exhausted.” 

Aramis did his best to smile at Porthos, whose fingers were tightly entwined with his. Don’t worry, he wanted to say. I’m back from the dead. 

[_|_]


	2. II (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place 3-4 weeks after the events of the last chapter. enjoy~  
> ooh, also...comments keep me alive, so feel free to tell me what you think. but if you didn't like it, well...uh...sorry.

“Aramis!” 

He hadn’t been sleeping when Athos’ voice startled him to life, but he’d been close. His face was pressed deep into his pillow and he felt no desire to leave its comfort. It was wet outside—he could hear the mud squelching under people’s feet as they went about their business. But above all, it was cold, and Aramis hated the cold. 

He bit down on his frustration. “What?” 

“Open the window first,” Athos drawled. Aramis could practically hear the smug little grin on his lips. 

But sitting upright was a struggle in itself. His ribs had healed, but his muscles seemed to ache continually from neglect, and from lying in a bed that was far too small for him. 

“It’s my day off, Athos.”

He opened the window to find his fellow musketeer—groomed and uniformed—staring down at him. 

“The rain’s stopped,” said Athos, gesturing toward the street behind him. 

“Indeed it has.” Aramis rubbed his face and remembered that he hadn’t shaved in over two days. He cringed under Athos’ gaze. 

“Come outside. We’re sparring today.”

Sparring? Aramis felt a sharp pang of annoyance, but he did his best not to betray it. There was no point in arguing with Athos—he'd quickly learned that the man always got his way. 

“I’ll get dressed.” He closed the shutters before Athos had the chance to respond. 

To his dismay, he found himself shivering as he peeled off his clothes. He also knew that he’d lost weight, but he figured that it wasn’t too noticeable under all of his winter layers. He couldn’t help it, really. He only hoped that he’d be able to gain it back—along with his strength—by the time Treville saw fit to put him back on regular duty. 

“You take longer than a woman,” Athos told him, when Aramis finally appeared outside, blinking against the sunlight. 

“What can I say?” Aramis made a show of placing his hat carefully on his head. He smiled at Athos and bent forward ever so slightly, extending a gloved hand. “After you, Monsieur.” 

[_|_]

“Where’s Porthos?” 

“Accompanying a hunting party.” 

“You’re not busy today, then?” Aramis wondered aloud, sticking close to Athos as they moved down the street. 

“I am busy. With you.” 

Aramis scoffed gently. He wasn’t much in the mood for chatting, so he let the conversation drop. He felt drained, truth be told. Drained and exhausted and empty. Even the streets looked strange, somehow—the buildings were dark and gloomy against the sky, the light harsh and cold. Aramis wondered vaguely if it were possible for anyone to get caught in this mud. He felt as if it might swallow him whole, if he dared to stop and stand still. 

Aramis looked down at his hands, and he felt that they looked different as well. Too big, too small. Different. 

He pulled in a ragged breath and wrapped a hand tightly around the hilt of his sword. 

[_|_]

Aramis watched anxiously as Athos removed his doublet. It didn’t make sense to keep his, but Aramis hesitated nonetheless. Athos shot him a questioning glance, but said nothing. 

“Go on, I’m ready,” called Aramis, trying hard to look the part. 

The first two times, Athos beat him easily. Mercifully, he kept quiet, save for the occasional unwanted tip or reprimand. But Aramis hated the way Athos was looking at him. It wasn’t disappointment, it was worry...and that was worse than anything. 

“Focus,” Athos told him, pointedly.

But Aramis knew that wasn’t the issue. Rather, every step he took felt like ten, and his sword was heavy and awkward in his grip. His skin was prickling under his shirt, and even though he’d shed most of his clothing, he continued to sweat through the fabric. “Give me a minute,” he begged. 

“You don’t have the luxury,” Athos reminded him. He came forward again, and Aramis stumbled backward. 

“I said, a minute!” he snapped. 

Athos lowered his weapon and sighed. “All right.” 

Before Aramis could catch his breath, however, he heard Athos moving toward him. 

“I said, enough,” he warned, bringing his blade to rest against Athos’ bare neck. His heart was pounding mercilessly against his ribs. 

Athos stopped short, and a strange emotion crossed his face. He raised his hands, exhaled quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

Aramis saw that he was unarmed, and the shame of it made his skin crawl. He let his arm fall to his side and shook his head. “I’m done.”

“Aramis...”

“I need to sit down.” He gave Athos a wide berth as he made his way to the table. The courtyard was practically empty—most of the musketeers were indoors or on duty in the streets. Aramis was grateful for that, at least. He felt lightheaded—as if he’d run for miles without stopping. He wondered what would happen if he passed out, right then and there. Would Athos carry him home? 

He could feel his body tighten as Athos approached, but the man’s voice was as steady as ever. “How do you feel?”

Aramis shrugged—unable to answer. He simply didn’t know. He could only describe it as, “Strange. Like I’m not...here. Sick.”

He didn’t dare look up to see Athos’ reaction. 

“Detached,” Athos suggested. Aramis shrugged again. 

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Athos continued, touching him gently on the shoulder. “And a meal, I think.”

He accepted—it was the least he could do.


	3. II (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV! takes place immediately after the last chapter.

While his friend ate, Athos watched. Aramis was a fine musketeer—no question about it. But it was as if a light had been snuffed out inside of him. And it wasn’t just an issue of his weight, or his lack of strength. Aramis’ demeanor was consistently, uncharacteristically fearful. Every loud noise, every touch—regardless of its origin—seemed to send a painful shock through his body. 

Athos touched his collarbone where Aramis’ blade had rested. He’d seen soldiers go through his before. Sometimes it lasted a few weeks, sometimes months. He had known a few who ended it by taking their own lives. But Aramis...Aramis was resilient, he told himself. And yet, a part of him knew that it didn’t matter. Marsac was resilient, and now he was simply gone—dead, most likely. 

“I can’t stand the cold,” Aramis said, so quietly that Athos barely heard him. He’d had two drink already, and his words were beginning to slur.

“I don’t think anyone genuinely enjoys the cold.” 

“Perhaps. Porthos, though...” Aramis smiled wanly. “He loves the snow. Every chance he gets, he stuffs it down my shirt.” He paused to take a small bite of stew, and for the first time that night, he met and held Athos’ gaze. His cheeks were flushed despite the pallor of his skin. 

Athos considered telling him to stop drinking; to eat more. But he knew that suggestion would only embarrass Aramis further, and Athos had no wish to alienate him. 

As if on cue, however, Aramis buried his dark head in his hands and groaned. “God, I don’t feel well.” 

Athos downed the last of his wine. “Time to go?” he asked. 

Aramis nodded and stood, swaying on his feet, his eyes shut tight against the world. He reached out for Athos and wrapped his fingers tightly around the fabric of his coat. 

“I’m sorry,” he said as they stumbled down the street. Athos did his best to keep them upright, but Aramis seemed intent on sliding to the ground. 

“What are you apologizing for?”

Aramis sighed loudly. “For...c-coming back, I suppose.”

“Coming back?” 

“While everyone else is back in Sa-Savoy.”

Athos shook him gently. “That wasn’t your fault,” he said. “Don’t put that on yourself. You fought your way out, and you lived.” 

Aramis dug his forehead into Athos’ shoulder. “I should’ve died with them,” he muttered, as if he hadn’t heard. 

“And yet...” Athos said, carefully pronouncing the words, “You are here. With me. Drunk, in the cold.” 

“With you.” 

“Unfortunately for you.” 

Aramis laughed quietly, raised his head. “I do-don’t know what you mean, Athos. I am...honored...to be on your arm.” 

“Then promise me one thing...that you will spar with me again tomorrow.” 

“No,” Aramis groaned. 

“Consider it...”

“I can promise nothing. But come by at m-midday...and we’ll see.” 

[_|_]

Aramis struggled to remain upright as he was dumped onto the bed. 

“Do you need help?” Athos gestured to his boots, but Aramis quickly shook his head. He groaned as he bent over his knees. 

“Are you sure?” 

Aramis sighed heavily. “All right, then, help me.”

Athos sighed in return, and dropped a knee to the floor. 

Just as he finished pulling off the first boot, however, he felt Aramis’ body give a little jerk. He heard the breath catch in his chest, and the protest of the bed as Aramis shifted his weight forward. Athos remained frozen, almost scared to look up. 

He placed a hand carefully on his friend’s knee. “Aramis...” he began.

Aramis answered with a quiet sob, and folded even further into himself. He dropped his chin to his chest and shuddered with each shallow breath that he took. 

“All right,” Athos said, at a loss. Calm down? It’s all right? Easy does it? Nothing seemed appropriate. 

Aramis, ignorant of Athos’ discomfort, leaned heavily into his chest, and Athos could feel him breathing—little hot puffs of air—against his skin. Aramis was clearly struggling to hold back, and while Athos was somewhat touched by the effort, he found it incredibly painful to witness. 

“All right, Aramis.” Athos let his hand rest at the nape of his friend’s neck. “You’re all right.” 

Aramis shook his head. His entire body convulsed in a sob, and then another, and another. 

“It’s the wine,” Athos offered, although he knew that wasn’t true. “It’s only the wine.”


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, this is going to sound a bit terrible of me, but this chapter was written after i realized that the next chapter (or, what is now the next chapter) needed some more development. but don't ya worry, things will get hotter and heavier very soon. [winks really obviously at you]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place in the early summer, the same year as the massacre.

Aramis laughed, until he felt the air being crushed out of him as Porthos grabbed and hoisted him up over a broad shoulder. He should have known that Porthos would waste no time in exploiting his moment of weakness. He held on tightly to Porthos’ shirt and swore, but Aramis knew that it wouldn’t do him any good. Porthos pried him loose and unceremoniously threw him into the water.

Somehow, Aramis was able to catch himself before his face went under, and he gasped as the chill of the lake seized his entire body. “Fuck you!” he managed to sputter. 

Porthos laughed until he was red in the face. “You look like a drowned fuckin’ rat!” 

Aramis picked himself up and felt his shirt, which was heavy with water, begin to slide from his shoulders. He pulled his sleeves up and splashed water in Porthos’ direction, but to his dismay, it didn’t even reach the bank. Porthos laughed even harder, and Aramis noticed that even Athos had cracked a grin. 

“You too?” he cried, throwing his arms up. He began struggling to undo his boots and tossed them onto the bank at Porthos’ feet. “Very well. I am beaten.” He fell back into the water and let it wash over him. He wouldn’t deny that it was refreshing, considering the heat of day. 

“The queen will be bathing soon,” he heard Porthos remind him. 

“Tell me when.” Aramis hummed quietly to himself, shutting his eyes against the sunlight. He had gotten used to the temperature of the water, and it felt like heaven against his skin. 

Soon enough, a shadow fell over him, and he peeled his eyes open. “Oh, hello,” he purred. 

Porthos hooked him under the arms and dragged him to shore. “Very soon."

Aramis propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. He felt at ease, he realized, and it was a wonderful, novel experience. He never thought he’d be able to notice the warmth of the sun on his face or the coolness of the earth under his palms. 

His gaze fell on his companions, and Aramis saw that Athos was watching him. He had been cleaning his pistol, and he still clutched the cloth in one hand and his weapon in the other. 

Aramis was no longer startled by Athos’ seriousness, but it still made him hesitate before offering a warm smile. Athos’ lips curved upward, but he quickly shook his head and returned to his work. 

“Come on, Athos, enjoy yourself!”

“I am,” he replied, without looking up. 

“Are you being serious?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“I think he’s full of it,” Porthos offered, taking a large bite from one of the plums Aramis had smuggled into their packs. 

“God, sometimes I just can’t tell,” Aramis muttered, holding out his hand. 

“Oh, please. Get your own. As for Athos...you know what he’s like.” 

Aramis shrugged, but he felt an inexplicable pang of disappointment.

[_|_]

Before dinner, he watched Athos bathe. He hadn’t meant to, exactly, but he found himself situated with a good vantage point, and it was surprisingly difficult to look away. Porthos sat nearby, singing softly to himself as he gutted and prepared the fish. 

Aramis had noticed that Athos had shed most of his clothes—save for his breeches—and was crossing the bank of the lake. Now he was in the water, and Aramis took another long look as the skin at the back of his neck prickled with shame.

“What are you looking at?” Porthos’ voice startled him. 

Aramis nodded toward the water. “Look at how beautiful it is.”

“What, Athos?”

Aramis made a show of sneering, and Porthos shrugged and returned to his fish. “Good fire, by the way,” he added.

“Marsac was the best at fires,” Aramis replied, absently. He pulled the knife out of his belt and grabbed the branch he’d started to whittle. While Porthos cooked, Aramis intermittently returned his attention to Athos, who seemed to rather enjoy swimming. 

“Do you know what they call us now?” 

Aramis turned, distractedly. “What do you mean?” 

“Les Inséparables,” Porthos said, chuckling. “Can you believe it?” 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Aramis scoffed, “I’m always with you.”

“Ah,” Porthos waved a fish at him, “I didn’t mean you and me. I meant the three of us.” 

Aramis rested his chin in his palm. “The three of us,” he repeated. “I never would have thought it were possible, really. Why do we associate with him, again?” 

“Athos? You’re the one who keeps inviting him drinking,” Porthos said. “I don’t mind, though. He’s good company—he knows when to shut up.” 

Aramis sighed and leaned backward to catch Porthos’ eye. “I didn’t ask you to be friends with me.” 

“What would you do if I weren’t?” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were warm.

“I would rely solely on female companionship, I suppose. But you, my dear Porthos...you would die of boredom.” Aramis turned back toward the lake, just in time to catch Athos wading back toward shore, naked, pale, and shivering. Aramis gave him a quick once-over before his shame got the better of him, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. 

By the time Athos rejoined them, Porthos was handing out plates. “This smells wonderful,” said Athos, settling down close to Aramis, who quickly clamped down on his guilt.

And then, as if he had read Aramis’ mind, Athos touched his shoulder. “Pass me one of those plums, Aramis?” he asked in a low voice.

Aramis looked down at himself as if Athos’ hand had left a black stain on his shirt. “You seem cheerier than usual, Athos,” he said tightly, reaching for the pouch behind him. 

“I don’t know why you seem to think I spend every minute in misery,” Athos drawled, his tone a touch more serious. “I assure you, I don’t.” He went quiet, and Porthos looked at the both of them with a little smile playing on his lips. 

Aramis swallowed. “Forgive me,” he said under his breath. 

“There is nothing to forgive.” Now Athos seemed genuinely unbothered. 

[_|_]

That night, Aramis found it impossible to sleep. After a few hours of lying on the ground, staring up at the stars, swiping at the insects buzzing around his head, he stood and began to make his way down to the lake. It was still quite dark, but the sun was just beginning to warm the colors of the sky. 

“Where are you going?” Halfway down the path, Athos’ voice nearly startled him out of his skin.

He put a hand over his heart and swore. “Don’t...Jesus, Athos...” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“The lake,” Aramis told him, as he turned and continued on his way. Athos followed him, and Aramis listened to the sound of twigs cracking under their feet. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, although it was likely that Athos had already figured that out. “Aren’t you tired?” He was grateful for the company, but he hadn’t expected any. 

Athos made a noncommittal noise. “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” Aramis laughed as they reached the bank. He lowered himself onto a rock, hoping that it was dry. Athos crossed his arms and dug the heel of his boot into the earth.

“You know you can speak to me, if you wish.”

“You know everything already.”

Athos was silent for a moment. “It never goes away,” he said, quietly. Aramis didn’t bother asking how Athos knew that—he recognized that there were dark stains in Athos’ history that he would never be privy to. 

“But it does get easier...” He didn’t know if he was asking or telling.

“It does.” 

“You wouldn’t throw me in, would you?” Aramis asked a few moments later, gesturing toward the water. 

Athos paused in mock contemplation. “No, I don’t think so,” he settled. 

“Good,” Aramis felt something warm bubbling up inside of him. “At least I can trust one of you.” He smiled and turned to face Athos. “Did Porthos tell you what they call us now?”


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About a year after the last chapter. Aramis walks Athos home.

Somehow, the fact that Athos didn’t approve of his trysts made them all the more enjoyable. Aramis found it difficult to resist glancing over in his direction, and without fail, he would meet a pair of hard, dark eyes staring back at him. Athos smiled from across the tavern, and raised his cup in a mock salute, to which Aramis gracefully inclined his head. 

“Who is that?” The woman on his lap twisted around to get a better look, and Aramis dug his forehead into the arch of her back, where her black curls fell down and tickled his neck. 

“No one. A friend,” he murmured. 

“You’re more interested in catching his eye than mine,” she snapped. “Is this a bet?” 

Aramis felt his stomach flip. “Of course not!” he said, indignantly. “Isabella, please.” 

She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed contentedly, and Aramis took comfort in the weight of her body against his. He never understood how other men—specifically, Athos—could do without the warmth of human contact. Aramis had seen Athos take interest in a woman once...maybe twice. But there was something cold about the way he behaved toward the poor ladies who sought his attention. 

Even when Aramis or Porthos—arguably, his closest friends in the regiment—clapped him on the shoulder, he often stiffened under their touch. Aramis had essentially given up on trying to seek affection from Athos. It wasn’t worth the sideways glances and stifled sighs. 

Aramis was startled out of his thoughts when Porthos grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged. “Hello, there,” he growled into Aramis’ ear. “Who’s this?” 

“Isabella,” he answered, wincing and elbowing the body behind him. “My dear, this is Porthos. Please forgive his ill manners.”

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle!” Porthos leaned forward until Aramis could smell his breath—sweet with wine. “Listen, Aramis. I’m going upstairs with...erm, this fair one. Will you make sure he gets home?” He nodded toward Athos. 

Aramis and Porthos had both decided—after numerous incidents—they would sleep better at night knowing that Athos was safely in his bed. But getting him there was typically Porthos’ duty. 

Aramis twisted his head to get a better look at his friend. “Are you serious?” he hissed. Isabella had taken his hands and laid them against her bare thighs. She knew he was aroused, and she reveled in it, giving a breathy little laugh as he shifted her weight. 

“Porthos, it’s your job to take care of that overgrown child...”

“Oh, please, Aramis,” the larger man whined. “You know I haven’t had a woman in weeks...”

“That’s not fair, we have a system...”

“What’s going on?” Isabella interjected, sensing the tension taking over his body. 

“Nothing,” Aramis tried to assure her. 

“Aramis...” Porthos begged. 

“What are you two bickering over?” Athos’ voice drifted across the room. 

“Nothing that concerns you!” Aramis shot back. 

But Porthos was looking at him so despondently and Aramis could feel himself breaking. He just couldn’t say no to Porthos. Isabella patted his shoulder with a firm hand. “I take it we’re not going back to your apartments?” 

“I’m...afraid not,” Aramis sighed into the nape of her neck. 

She wiggled away from him and Aramis’ hands fell to lap. Porthos chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Ask Athos to help you out with that,” he said, stifling his grin with his fist. 

“Oh, fuck off.” The heat rose to his face, and Aramis tried to cross his legs. “Just...go, will you?”

Isabella looked Porthos up and down, and her lips curved into a bright smile. “You’re a handsome one,” she said. Aramis prickled, and Porthos beamed. She turned back toward Aramis and said brusquely, “Buy me a bottle, and we’ll call it a night. It’s the least you could do.”

Aramis nodded unhappily and waved at the owner of the tavern. To his dismay, Isabella wouldn’t stick around to drink her wine, but hiked up her skirts and tucked it under her arm. 

“Sorry, dear. Next time, maybe.” 

As Isabella took her leave, Aramis turned to glare at Athos. To his disappointment, Athos was slumped over the table with his face buried into the curve of his arm.   
Aramis sat back and contemplated the pleasant ache between his legs. Not tonight, he told himself, shooting Athos another look, just in case. 

He considered banging on the table, but the sound of Athos’ quiet, steady breathing softened the edges of his anger. 

“Athos,” he muttered, shaking him gently by the shoulder. The man groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible. 

“Time to go,” Aramis told him. He made sure his tone left no room for argument. 

[_|_]

Athos wasn’t too drunk to walk—he hardly ever was—but Aramis took him arm in arm just in case. At first, Athos had tried to peel away, but now he leaned heavily into the support. 

“What did you and Porthos argue about?” he asked, after a few minutes of tense silence. 

Aramis sighed, and he felt Athos turn to look at him. 

“Nothing. Just...” Might as well tell the truth, he thought to himself. He figured Athos should know the pain he’d put them through. “Who should walk you home, is all.” 

Athos was quiet for a moment. “I thought...you two had a system. He drags me home, you stop by...to make sure I’m not dead in the morning.” He groaned under his breath, as if speaking were the most difficult thing in the world. 

Aramis shrugged, irked that Athos already knew the framework of their arrangement. 

“Well, tonight he found a woman.” 

Athos cleared his throat. “So did you.” He paused, before adding, “I’m sorry.”

Aramis could feel his frustration melting by the second. “Why do you do this to yourself?” It was a conversation they had at least once a month.

“You know why.” 

“A woman died...Yes, I know. That can’t be it,” he pressed. 

Athos held onto him a little tighter. “Later,” he begged. “Please.” But Aramis knew there would be no later—there never was. 

[_|_]

“There you are,” Aramis grunted as he pushed Athos back onto the bed. But to his surprise, Athos wasn’t quite ready to let go. He held Aramis tight in his grip and quickly shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. 

Aramis felt his stomach drop. “What is it?” he asked, his brow furrowing in concern. He dropped to the floor in front of Athos and peered up into his friend’s face. “Are you going to be sick? Shall I fetch the bucket again?”

Athos shook his head and Aramis carefully brushed the hair back from his face. He wished he could do more, but he never understood what Athos wanted from him. It was annoying at best, and utterly depressing at worst. 

He ached all over when Athos refused to let him in, and funnily, the more Athos pulled away, the more it hurt. Aramis thought he would have been used to it by now, but a dull sort of pain was settling into the pit of his stomach. He pushed it down and patted the hand Athos had fisted in his shirt. 

“What can I do for you, my friend?” 

Athos gave him a look that Aramis hardly recognized. It was pained, but there was more to it than that. Aramis, trying hard to understand, held his gaze, and Athos swallowed reflexively. 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Aramis asked, lowering his voice. Athos was holding the back of his head, and Aramis jerked a little in surprise when a thumb brushed against the base of his jaw. He would have written it off if Athos hadn’t let it linger. 

Something in his head clicked, and it froze him from the inside out. 

Aramis knew that look, and he knew that touch. Athos trailed a finger carefully down his neck, down to his collarbone, and held it there. Neither of them moved. 

Could he have been so blind? Or was Athos really so adept at misleading him? 

Athos shuddered and inhaled sharply, dropping his hand to his lap. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, and Aramis could hear the tremor in his voice. “Forgive me.” 

Aramis opened his mouth, but found that he could say nothing. Athos gulped down air and tried again, “Please...forgive me.” His eyes were wide with a strange sort of fear, and Aramis could feel his own heart racing in his chest. He’d wanted this for a long time, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe that Athos could want it too. 

“Let me kiss you,” offered Aramis. The words came spilling out of him before he had the chance to reconsider. 

Athos’ silence prompted a dizzying rush of dread. Aramis wouldn’t bother telling himself that there was a way out of this one, because there simply wasn’t. If he had misread the signs...

But Athos nodded, and Aramis obeyed without a second thought. 

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Athos’ mouth was open and pliant, and almost immediately Aramis felt the familiar ache of arousal blossoming in his belly. This was Athos, permeating his every sense. The bite of liquor, the smell of sweat, the heat—that was Athos.

But something in his head was screaming at him to stop, and Aramis found himself pulling back. “I won’t lose you.” 

Athos was breathing hard, and Aramis watched him, fascinated by the sight.

“I’m sorry?” 

“I won’t lose you after this.”

“No. No, you won’t.”

This time, it was Athos who took the initiative and pulled him in close, crushing their lips together until one of them broke for air. 

“Wait...” 

Athos moaned against his neck, and the noise struck Aramis to the core. But he was resolved. 

“Not now,” he said, brushing the beads of sweat from Athos’ forehead. “Not yet.”

“Aramis...”

“When you’re sober. I promise you...I will be there.” 

“God, I’m so sorry...”

“No...please. Don’t be sorry,” he muttered. He knew Athos, and he knew that there was a very good chance that neither of them would ever mention this night again. But he also knew that Athos couldn’t afford to cut one of his two friends entirely out of his life, and that gave Aramis some hope. 

Athos took him by the wrist. “I know you’ve done this with Porthos.” He sounded frightened again, as if he were still afraid that Aramis would change his mind. 

Aramis felt a stab of guilt, but he smiled, despite himself. “Athos, I want you to be sober. That’s all, I promise you. I won’t let you do something you’ll regret.” 

“Would you regret...doing something?”

Aramis swore under his breath. “No,” he said, and it was the truth. 

To his horror, however, Athos’ eyes became bright with tears. Not knowing what else to do, Aramis opened his arms, and Athos willingly folded into the embrace. Aramis hesitated—he’d never gotten this far before. Athos was heavy and warm against his chest, and the night was humid, so Aramis took the opportunity to wipe Athos’ face with his sleeve. Athos leaned into his touch, and that small motion was enough to render Aramis breathless. 

“Why now?” he asked, angling his head down to rest against Athos’ hair. He never imagined that he would be able to hold him—let alone kiss him. How long had Athos hid whatever desire he had for Aramis’ affection? The very notion of Athos having any sort of desire for him made Aramis dizzy all over again. 

But Athos was too exhausted—or, he feared, too ashamed—to formulate an answer, so Aramis remained silent for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll finally be writing our lil friend D'Artagnan into the next chapter.


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i felt this little mini-chapter was necessary to set up the rest of the fic. i should have the next one up soon, though. either tomorrow or the day after.

Aramis awoke with a pounding headache, which wasn’t helped by the sunlight pouring in through the windows. He sat up—head swimming, limbs heavy— and his heart skipped a beat when he remembered where he was. He was in Athos’ apartment, but Athos was nowhere to be seen. 

“Are you awake?” The voice—which drifted in from another room—was both a relief to Aramis and a source of great apprehension. 

“Yes,” he answered, running his fingers through his hair, attempting to wipe the signs of sleep from his face. 

“I have some bread. It’s stale, but it’s not terrible.” Athos walked in fully dressed—hat and all—holding a wooden cup, which he then passed to Aramis. “Water.”

“Thank you.” 

The silence that followed threatened to overwhelm him. Finally, Athos let out a quiet sigh and lowered himself into a chair at the corner of the room. 

“I can’t do this with you,” he said. Terse and to the point.

Aramis wasn’t surprised. He didn’t protest, although he felt as if his insides were tying themselves in knots. He merely asked, “Why not?” 

“I’m not ready,” Athos admitted, refusing to look up from the floor. His usually cool, indifferent tone had been replaced by something much softer—much more human. “You’re the first person I’ve even...considered...since she d—” he broke off. “Man or woman.”

Aramis took a long drink of water. 

“I was drunk,” Athos continued.

“You’re drunk every night.”

“Please...I’m sorry.” His voice sounded so weak that Aramis had to look at him in order to make sure it was really Athos sat in that chair. 

“You were drunk,” he repeated, trying hard to keep his voice level. “Apology accepted.” 

“I’m too afraid.”

“I understand,” Aramis muttered, although he didn’t. Not all of it, anyway. He finished the water in his cup, and Athos offered to refill it. 

But when Athos came to take it from him, Aramis grabbed a hold of his wrist. “Just one question, please.” He took a long, trembling breath. “Do you care for me, Athos?”

Athos seemed to cringe at the question, although he placed a warm hand over Aramis’ cool fingers. “Too much,” was his reply.   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, please hit me up on tumblr (miracule there too)! i take compliments, complaints, prompts, anything!


	7. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis isn't sure how he feels about d'Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys. the world cup happened.

Aramis watched, with a great deal of interest, as d’Artagnan held his own against the finest swordsman in the regiment. The boy couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five, but his skill was certainly impressive, despite the hot temper that matched it. Nevertheless, d’Artagnan was proving to be good entertainment, so Aramis and Porthos had decided to make an afternoon of it.

Predictably, Athos disarmed d’Artagnan numerous times before coolly waving his hand, signaling that he had grown tired of sparring. 

“Once more,” d’Artagnan begged him, picking himself up from the ground. His clothes were caked with mud and his hair was sticking to his forehead. Aramis ducked his head to hide a grin, and he felt Porthos chuckle beside him. 

But Athos joined them at the table, and Aramis poured him a generous cup of wine. 

“You’re the best opponent I’ve ever faced,” d’Artagnan continued, trying his hand at flattery. 

“Faced many, have you?” Porthos chimed in. 

“Well...no, but I...”

“Later,” Athos promised, taking a long drink. He sat down with a sigh and angled his face up toward the sun. “Time to eat soon, isn’t it?”

Aramis moaned a little. “I can’t wait, I’m starving.” 

“Come with us,” Athos told d’Artagnan. Porthos nodded happily, but Aramis felt a little jolt go through him. The boy had helped them save Athos from the firing squad—treating him to dinner was the absolute least they could do. And yet, the three of them—Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—didn’t often entertain company. 

Despite some rough patches, Aramis had grown to enjoy the dynamic of their relationship. It was easy—he knew what to expect. 

[_|_]

Aramis found himself doing more watching than eating. He suddenly seemed to have lost his appetite, and what little he did eat was tasteless. It’s not that he didn’t like d’Artagnan—on the contrary, he found the young man to be incredibly refreshing company, not to mention easy on the eyes. 

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Porthos asked, between bites of dried pork. 

Aramis didn’t know what to say. How could he tell Porthos that he felt jealous of a farm boy that they hardly even knew? He shrugged wordlessly, so Porthos tried to follow his gaze. But Aramis knew better than to stare at Athos at the next table, so Porthos was left bewildered. 

“I thought you said you were hungry.”

“I’m feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all.” 

He should’ve known better than to use that excuse. Porthos dropped what was in his fingers and peered into Aramis’ face, frowning deeply. Aramis waved him away, muttering, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” as Porthos tried to feel his forehead. “It’s d’Artagnan,” he hissed, batting Porthos’ hand from his face. 

Porthos sat back and narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What about him?” 

“Keep your voice down,” Aramis told him as he struggled to come up with an adequate response. “Athos seems to have taken quite a liking to him, that’s all.” 

“Do you not trust him?”

“No...no, it’s not like that.”

Porthos grinned. “My god,” he muttered, leaning down so that they were eye-to-eye. 

“Don’t,” Aramis warned.

Porthos wrapped a heavy arm around Aramis’ shoulders. “Is this really about Athos?”

“What do you mean?” said Aramis, although he knew that Porthos already had him figured out. 

“I thought you were...well, not interested.”

“I’m not,” Aramis snapped. “I never was.”

Porthos laughed again, and gave him a little shake. “Now we all know that’s not true.” 

“One time,” Aramis reminded him, growing red in the face. “I let him get the best of me one time. It never happened again, you know that.”

Porthos scoffed. “All right, well, that doesn’t mean you weren’t interested. Aramis,” he sighed, touching their heads together. “I know you. It wasn’t that long ago that you were falling over yourself to impress him. I’m glad we’re past that...I am.”

“It was a dark time,” Aramis agreed, allowing himself a small smile. He looked back toward Athos and d’Artagnan only to find the boy looking at him. When he met Aramis’ gaze, he waved cautiously.

“Why don’t you join us?” he called, and Aramis could swear that d’Artagnan was beginning to blush. “There’s fewer people now—more room.” 

“Oh, yes,” Athos joined in. “Please do...if you promise to leave your mood behind.” 

Porthos looked sideways at him. “Mm. Why don’t we?” There was a twinkle in his eye that Aramis was wary of. 

“If they insist.”

[_|_]

Eventually, d’Artagnan took his leave, and Porthos went off to gamble with a rather green-looking Red Guard. Aramis continued to drink, if only to fill the silence between him and Athos. 

“Slow down,” Athos warned him, as he refilled his own cup. “You’re looking a bit queasy.”

Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

“You’re one to talk,” he muttered, to which Athos raised an eyebrow.

“Are you well?” 

“I’m all right.” Aramis shrugged and forced himself to meet Athos’ prying gaze. 

“Ah.” Athos paused to take a sip, and for a moment, he seemed anxious. “In that case, let me hear your troubles.” 

Aramis hadn’t expected that. Athos wasn’t the sort of man who explored his friends’ inner lives, and the request—however simple—made Aramis squirm. 

“Or not,” Athos added, leaning forward on his elbows. “Only, you’re usually more than willing to complain.”

“D’Artagnan...” He hoped that Athos would only think he was changing the subject. “He’s a determined lad, isn’t he?” 

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Yes, he is. He’s got natural talent, but I’m afraid his rashness will get him into trouble.” 

“Do you think he definitely wants to be a musketeer?”

“He certainly wants to continue accompanying us when we’re on duty. Treville doesn’t mind—he likes the boy. He’ll probably get a commission within a few years, if he’s lucky.” 

Aramis made a noncommittal noise. 

“Do you have your doubts?”

He backtracked, shook his head. “No...I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you so taken with anybody.”

“Taken?” Athos looked incredulous. “Aramis, this isn’t an issue of affection. I only want to make sure he gets a good education before his hot head gets him killed.”

“Of course,” Aramis corrected himself. “I know you mean well. It’s touching, really.”

Athos chuckled, and Aramis was surprised that he was still in good spirits, after a night of drinking. “You know,” Athos continued with a wry smile, “he reminds me a bit of someone.” 

“Oh?”

“Mm.” He nodded and affected an air of seriousness. 

“Well, do tell.”

“God, you aren’t yourself tonight. It’s you, he reminds me of you.”

Aramis was truly taken back, and he felt a warmth in his face that had nothing to do with wine. “How so?” he couldn’t help but ask. 

Athos shrugged. “He’s full of life. Very positive. Clever,” he paused, “and reckless.”

“How am I reckless?” Aramis asked, to hide his relief. But embarrassment was fast on its heels. 

“You don’t call sleeping with certain powerful Parisian women a reckless thing to do? D’Artagnan’s reckless with his sword, you’re reckless with your...” he gestured across the table, “Sword.” 

Aramis laughed, and Athos cracked a grin and shook his head. “Don’t tell Porthos I called you clever.”

“I’m going to tell everyone you called me clever.”

“So, he isn’t going to pose a problem for you?”

“D’Artagnan? Why would he? I mean, he’s a bit rash, as you said. And he’s a bit handsome, for this line of work. Might attract unwanted attention.”

“Worried he might upstage you?”

“Perhaps.” Aramis smiled. 

“I think he’d find that difficult,” Athos told him.

Aramis sat back and studied his friend’s face. But Athos merely dropped his gaze and poured the last of the wine into his cup. “Where is Porthos?” 

“Still playing. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten called out for cheating yet.”

“You two should go on home. It’s late. He has to be on duty tomorrow morning.”

Aramis shrugged and crossed his legs. “I don’t mind.”

Athos’ lips curved upward. “Suit yourself, then.”

[_|_]

D’Artagnan looked around the courtyard, and Aramis noticed that his hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of his weapon. Aramis put his pistol down on the table and waited for the boy to notice him. Finally, d’Artagnan looked in his direction, and the tension seemed to ease out of him. He quickly made his way over to the table and stood behind one of the benches. 

Aramis cocked an eyebrow. “Sit down,” he offered. D’Artagnan sat, and Aramis began to reassemble his gun. “It can get a bit dull around here,” he began, glancing up at the boy, “Might as well make something of the time.” 

“Where are the others?” 

Aramis shrugged. “Porthos is busy. Athos...who knows,” he said, glancing toward the gate. Probably nursing a splitting headache. 

D’Artagnan sniffed and raked a hand through his hair. 

“Here, I’m not on duty.” Aramis put on his best smile. “I’ll show you the neighborhood.”

“Now?”

“Why not?” 

The boy seemed to light up. “Constance told me about a few places, but I haven’t gotten a chance to see much,” he admitted.

“You have been busy, haven’t you? It’s a beautiful day—it’s the least I could do,” Aramis told him. But he couldn’t help grinning in earnest as d’Artagnan leapt from his seat, like a horse ready to bolt from its pen. Athos was wrong, he thought. Aramis was sure that he had never been so young and full of life.


End file.
